


Midnight Rider

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/F, Gen, Illustrations, Inspired by Baby Driver, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Mute Dave Strider, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-01 01:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13283982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: This is a tale of four lives. Four lives, which intermingle and wind themselves around one another, which become inseparable.In the Kingdom of Skaia, peace is routinely broken by a ruthless crime organization, known as the Crows. And, their reign of terror is about to come to a tumultuous end, thanks to the efforts of four of the most unlikely people to ever join forces.This is the tale of a criminal, an innkeeper, a sorceress, and a kingdom-appointed investigator.(Basically, it'sBaby Driver, but set in a medieval fantasy world.)





	1. Nandemonaiya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Nandemonaiya** by RADWIMPS, _Your Name (Kimi no na wa)_ (2017)

The room is cold and bare. Furniture is sparse, consisting of little more two rough oak chairs and a single round table. The only light in the room comes from the overhanging three candle chandelier. From this source comes an array of dancing oranges and yellows. Shadows sway and bend and stretch, though the two men in the slate and stone room pay no heed to these flickering shapes.

One of these people is a tall, balding man. His tense muscles press against the thin fabric of his tunic, and his jaw is set. Yellowed, crooked teeth are bared. Light brown, blood shot eyes stare forward, locked upon a singular target, as he speaks. “What the _hell_ are you thinking? No, nah. I _know_ you don’t think, you rotten bastard. God, you’re useless!” He raises his hand, and the pale skin stands out from the dark grey surroundings.

The hand falls, striking another man across the face. He, too, is pale. He has the same chiseled jaw of the older man, and his golden hair also matches what little of the other man’s is left. His thin lips remain pressed together, and his expression doesn’t change when the blow comes. The glasses he wears, which are perched upon the bridge of his nose and secured by a length of leather rope around his ears, are knocked crooked by the impact. When he looks up, bright red blood stains his face; it drips from his nose. Yet, through it all, he remains silent.

“Say something!” the older man demands. “SAY SOMETHING, DAVE!”

There’s no verbal reply. Instead, the young man, Dave, responds with a small smirk. It’s little more than a flicker, a brief display of human emotion.

His opposition isn’t amused. “God, how are you my…” Large hands cover an aging face. A loud, exasperated groan escapes him, but he ultimately concludes with a dismissive wave. “You’re an idiot, kid. You’re an idiot, but you’re a damned good bandit.” From his pocket, the man plucks a fabric pouch. He tosses it onto the table, and the contents spill out. Golden coins, crowns, come forth. They clang and clink against the hard metal joints of the table.

Dave reaches out eagerly. He gathers his prize into his hands and grins. His victory is short, though.

Before leaving, the older man throws a punch.

It hits. The energy is channeled directly into Dave’s lower jaw. He is unprepared, and he ends up toppling to the stone floor. His head slams into the flagstone, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder. He groans. The reward is forgotten, the coins left scattered, as he clutches the back of his head. Above the omnipresent droning, he hears footsteps. Shortly thereafter, he feels another impact—a solid kick to the chest. His breath is sucked from him, and he gasps.

“Fucking idiot,” the older man grunts, towering above his fallen adversary. He remains there, breathing heavily, reeking of alcohol, for several minutes. Then, without warning, he leaves.

And, after more time passes, Dave stirs. Having laid on the floor, completely still, for several minutes, he groans. He crawls to the nearest wall and props himself up against it. As he moves, he gathers his money, placing each coin into the pouch one by one. When it’s all done, he clutches it to his chest. He doesn’t smile; rather, the left side of his mouth twitches upwards, forming a smirk, and a contented sigh escapes him.

Karkat Vantas is a short man with an equally short fuse. His wild, slightly curled black hair falls into his medium brown skin, and his red leather vest is taut over his rounded stomach. He’s a reluctant inn owner, but he’s considered one of the best. Boar’s Head Inn is a longstanding family business, which is set within the city’s defensive walls. There are two entries—one faces the outside world, and the other faces the kingdom of Skaia.

Today, he finds the inn more crowded than usual. The downstairs bar is packed with both inn patrons and random passerby. Travelers, too, populate the many seats; some even sit on the floor. Normally, this would be perplexing. Today, it’s only natural. Through the windows, Karkat can see a solid foot of snow. Wind sweeps both the falling flakes and the powdery ground cover up, whipping it wildly in the air.

So, it’s surprising when the door—the door facing the inner city, specifically—swings open. Cold air floods the space, as does snow. From the gathered crowd, there comes a collective moan. People cover their faces and seek shelter behind the tables and counters.

The culprit is a tall, slender, but obviously muscular man. His hair is golden blond, his skin is pale, and his strange, red eyes sweep across the room with a pointed disinterest. Bruising is visible around his right eye; it is beginning to turn angry, shining purple. He approaches the counter with a certain swagger, a walk that says, “I’m important, I’m here, and I demand service.”

Karkat does not like this one bit. As soon as the man’s ass hits the barstool, he snaps. “You can’t just walk into my business, freeze off the balls and tits of every one of my patrons, and expect me to serve you, you air-headed fucker.”

The man remains unmoved.

“God, fuck you! Fuck you, you little bastard!” Despite his public display of disapproval, Karkat knows this man.

Dave Strider has rented a room at Boar’s Head since before Karkat even had to own his now-dead father’s business. He arrived as a seven-year-old, with a change purse full of golden crowns, and a note pinned to the fading black wool of his winter coat’s lapel, “Mute, stupid bastard needs a room until further notice. Payment will be sent as needed, including gratuity for dealing with this fickle piece of shit. Do not search for the party responsible for these dues.”

Naturally, after some time, Karkat’s father let his curiosity get the best of him. He went to see who was paying the odd man’s dues, and was promptly found, stabbed over twenty times, dumped in a loosely closed ale barrel outside of the inn.

Naturally, Karkat has no desire to continue the search. And, though he wants to, he doesn’t blame Dave for what happened. They were warned, and he did his best to dissuade his father…

A mid-pitched whistle breaks Karkat’s thoughts. He looks up, towards the man across from him, then down to the polished wooden counter. Here, he finds a note, with several gold crowns placed on top. “I came across some money today. Figured I’d thank you for letting me stay.” When he’s done reading, his eyes move to meet Dave’s.

Two equally strange red gazes lock onto one another. The blond man smirks. His left brow shoots upwards, and the left side of his mouth twitches, as if he’s admitting to something. He laughs. It’s a soft, raspy noise. Smoky. If Karkat were to choose a word to describe that laugh, it would be ‘smoky.’

Karkat returns with a scoff. A low, guttural growl. “Surely, you don’t think I’m that fucking dense. I’m not scrubbing toilets with my brain, you know. You want something more, don’t you? Give it to me straight, you puerile fuck.”

Another laugh. Dave moves his fingers, as if spinning something between them, and allows a quill to appear from thin air. With this quill, he scribbles another comment on the parchment. “You got me, good sir. Arrest me now, drag me to the nearest dungeon and string by the thumbs to a cold stone wall. I’ll take a drink.”

A nod precedes the instinctive reaction. Karkat turns, fills a mug with some mid-tier ale, then turns back around. As he slides the beverage across the counter, into the man’s waiting hand, he cocks his head to the side. “So, Strider, where did you get that fucking hell of a shiner?”

The man shrugs. He holds his hand beneath this chin, with the back facing up, and his fingers curled to form an ‘O’ shape. He throws this hand shape forward, and flattens it as the motion occurs. When this receives no reaction, he sighs. He puts pen to parchment again, and scribes a reply. “None of your business, pal.”

Karkat shrugs. He turns his back and continues his duties. Polishing cups, scrubbing puke from the floors, and shining the counters isn’t what he dreamed of doing, but it’s what he has to do. And, by the time he’s done, Dave is gone. In his stead, there’s another note and three extra silver slicks.

“Thanks, loser,” reads the note, its red ink still shining and wet.

Alone, in his room on the top floor of Boar’s Head Inn, Dave Strider sits on his bed, which is pressed to the wall nearest the window. When he had first arrived, it was placed on the wall furthest from its current position. Yet, over time, he found that looking outside, onto the untamed wilderness beyond the walls around the kingdom, calmed him.

Now, he leans his shoulder against the cold window. His eyes remain half-closed, and his fingers trace intricate, swirling patterns upon the frosted glass. His warm breath clouds the panes, and his eyes drift to the sky, locking upon the full moon. At this point, there’s a stiff breeze. It rattles the looser panes of glass, and sends a chill through the space. Yet, Dave remains unmoved; he’s been in worse conditions.

“Eh! You rotten bloody freeloader!” yells someone in the room to the east. The exclamation is followed by a loud shout, a thud, and the skittering of rapidly retreating footsteps. Then, the door slams shut.

Dave snickers. He drops down, onto his back, and pulls the pouch—still filled with the remnants of his most recent haul—from his pocket. He packs the coins into a hidden compartment of the top drawer of his bedside table. And, laid out on the straw-stuffed mattress, he closes his eyes. A long, distracted sigh escapes him. In his head, he occupies himself with music. He composes, as he often does, arrangements and poems. But, he’ll never record what he dreams up; he had done so once, and it had ended… Well, to say the least, it ended very, very poorly.

By the time the sun is about to rise, he’s nearly asleep. Yet, before he can reach that point, there’s a noise—a loud, incessant tapping. He bolts upright, turns to the window, and groans.

There, perched upon the sill, is a crow. A small swatch of parchment is rolled up and tied to its right leg.

Dave doesn’t bother unfurling the note. He knows what it means. He gathers his things, bundles up, into his only thick, cotton coat, and sets off. He rushes down the stairs, spanning two floors, and outside, to the stables, which face the inner city. There, he locates his steed—a white-maned Palomino—and equips it with a plain, worn out leather saddle. When this is done, and he is mounted, he silently rides into the early light of dawn, towards the abandoned, burnt husk of an old ale refinery. There, he fully expects to be met by the man from earlier…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The images are original, and drawn by me! **[Here's the link for Dave](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/169252832754/heres-something-thats-more-my-usual-style-if)** , and **[here's the link for Karkat](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/169283329259/heres-a-fantasy-medieval-au-karkat-vantas)**!


	2. Day Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[Day Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IT2pHxuZD1c&list=PL6C7AEA31B943B736&index=9)** by Kiyoshi Yoshida, _The Girl Who Leapt through Time_ (2006)

Rose Lalonde isn’t the tallest woman, but she’s by no means the shortest. She has a curvy build; lightly tanned skin; slick, golden blond hair; and a smile more mysterious than the most obscure volume of arcana. Now, she stands in the middle of a disheveled old bar. A bloodied dagger is held in her right hand, and a pouch of coins is clutched in her left. At her feet is a man, who writhes in pain and clutches at his wounded abdomen. Throughout it all, she remains calm.

“Hey!” Another man—short, rotund, and bald—yells. His eyes are narrowed, and his shoulders are tense. He presses a dagger to the throat of some unknown woman. Sweat beads on her brow, and she wrings her hands together. The man, meanwhile, presses down on the knife. From beneath the shining metal, there comes a trickle of red.

Rose speaks up. “Let her go, Dex.”

The man snarls, rolls his eyes, but ultimately obeys. He sulks and, like a disgraced animal, he wanders off.

“You’re soft, Lalonde,” snaps yet another man. He’s tall, slender, and has skin the color of aged parchment. Fine lines on his brow indicate how much he scowls, and it appears to be quite often. Despite his thick, black brows, he, like the rest of the group, lacks any hair on his head. As he speaks, he stuffs some grist leafs into his pipe. He lights it, inhales deeply, and breathes forth a plume of foul-smelling smoke from his nostrils. “Mark my words, you’re…”

Before he can finish, Rose turns away. She waves the commentary aside and proceeds with the plan. She carries the money, still wrapped in bloodied fabric, and proceeds to the back entry. When she throws the door open, she is met by a cold gust of air. Wind whips around her faded purple scarf and snow settles in her hair, but she remains steadfast. Her gaze is locked on the dark alley ahead, and her brows are furrowed. The sound of rapidly approaching galloping tells her that her target is approaching. From her slightly parted lips comes a cloud of condensation, indicative of a long, exasperated sigh.

A sharp whistle serves as a reply—whether or not it is an intentional response is irrelevant. What matters to Rose is the man before her, a man with pale skin and golden hair. As he arrives, he dismounts. With his horse in tow, he approaches Rose. Outlined against the red and orange light of early morning, he cocks his head to the side.

“You’re an idiot, Dave,” Rose snarls.

Dave nods.

In the back of Rose’s mind, there’s a voice—soft, hoarse, and with a pronounced drawl. She recognizes it as her cousin’s telepathic communication and, though she does her best to ignore it, she finds herself listening to him.

 _“I fuckin’ know that, Lalonde. Now, just give me the coins.”_ His brows are furrowed, his teeth bared, and his hands are extended. When his demand is not immediately obeyed, he pushes. _“Dammit, Rose, give it to me!”_

Despite her personal qualms about the situation, Rose acquiesces. She shoves the sack of gold and silver into Dave’s waiting arms. At the same time, she grabs onto the front of his shirt. She holds it tightly, pulling him in, as she continues, her voice now cold and unaffected, “I understand that you’ll never listen to me, but I want you to understand one thing. You’re being used. There is nothing for you with the Crows, David, and you know I’m right…”

A snarl serves as Dave’s reply. He pulls away, straightens his coat, and turns away. He pulls himself up, onto his horse, and takes off, into the settling fog of morning.

_“You can’t keep running, David.”_ The voice echoes in Dave’s head. It’s like an incessant ringing. A droning noise, which nags at him to do something other than what he’s doing. He grips the reins tighter and gently presses his knees against the horse’s sides. The steed, obedient to a fault, speeds up.

The cold wind stings his face. Though the sunrise is visible through the clouds, the snow continues to fall, as does the temperature. Small shards of ice bite against his exposed skin. In the distance, he hears the sounds of shouting and the distinctive clicks of crossbows. He’s unaware of the extent of the damage to the Crows, but he knows that they’ve been caught.

It was bound to happen, of course. Eventually, they would be cornered. But, there was a plan.

And Dave turns around just in time to see it. A loud bang is followed by rising smoke from the location he’d just vacated. By the time he turns back around, he can see that all attentions have been drawn to the crime scene. People are peering through their windows and pouring out, into the streets, to see what’s happening. Dave can’t blame them; he’d do the same thing…

* * *

Staring down his father is something Dave is well acquainted with. He’s unnervingly familiar with the burning glare of a dissatisfied man, and he knows all too well the sting of corporeal punishment. That said, he didn’t expect to meet such retaliation after the most recent job. After all, it was a perfectly clean getaway. Sure, some people were lost to the kingdom’s guards, but that’s a common occurrence.

“You incompetent, useless idiot!” Two large hands slam against a worn out table. From the man towering before Dave, there comes a drawn out growl. He shakes his head, causing wisps of what remains of his hair to fall into his face. “I told you to go as soon as Rose gave you the haul.”

Dave shrugs. He nods a few times, knowing in his head what wants to say, but he produces no verbal reply.

It seems that the man understands, though, as he is quick to shoot back, “You _did_?” he scoffs. “If you _did_ , then I wouldn’t have lost Porter. Your incompetence cost us our best silencer, you brat.” The man straightens his back and folds his arms across his chest. He begins to pace around the table, purposefully making each step as loud as he can. Hard leather soles clop against a cold flagstone floor,

And, to Dave, the sound is akin to nails scraping against slate. It’s harsh and inelegant, a far cry from the flowing musical poetry he often composes in his head. He remains at its whim, bending easily to every demand.

“I should beat you to within an inch of your pitiful life, you piece of shit.” The man shakes his head. Then, without any further commentary, he gestures to the door. “Get out of here.”

Dave pauses. He gestures towards the pouch of coins.

The response he receives is a coarse laugh. “You think you’ll get paid for this job? _Get the fuck out of my sight_ , you worthless turd,” says the man, his words spoken through gritted teeth. “LEAVE!”

No further input is needed. Dave leaps from his seat, then scrambles out the door, into the open air of the roofless, abandoned refinery.

From here, he has only one place to go: home. He trudges through the snow, mounts his steed, and begins his return to the inn.

* * *

By now, the bar’s population has thinned to no more than a dozen. Most of them are incoherently drunk or talking amongst themselves. Of course, Karkat knows of one person who will be different; he can count on Dave as a constant source of mystery. For all his poise, though, Dave is a good listener. Perhaps it’s because he never speaks. No one knows _why_ he never speaks, but it’s certain that he doesn’t.

Now, Karkat wouldn’t say that he’s interested in Dave Strider. He has no real reason to be. In fact, he has reason to be the exact opposite; by all means, he should hate this man. But, instead, he has to admit a certain amount of intrigue. Perhaps it’s a bit of a mild obsession, brought on by isolation after his father’s death. The nature of his job means that he will maintain a friendship with few people. Those who enter are either passing through or passing out.

He’s observed the man’s mannerisms and habits, though he’s managed to figure out little. At the very least, he knows this: Dave Strider never leaves or returns on a regular schedule. When he’s not out, he spends his time tending to his horse. When he’s not tending to his horse, he’s in his room. The only other time he is seen is when he returns from his duties, at which point he will enter the bar, sit down, and occupy himself with a variety of activities. Karkat has seen Dave drawing and writing and, on exceptionally rare and often alcohol-fueled occasions, he can be caught playing remarkable original compositions on the nearest available instrument.

So, when Dave returns and, instead, sits at a booth in the furthest, most isolated corner of the room, Karkat knows something is wrong.

Of course, he isn’t at all interested in the man. No, he is indifferent to all his customers. As it was with his father, he maintains a strict policy of equality. He treats the local drunkards the same way he treats his most loyal, sober patrons. The doesn’t mean that he doesn’t sympathize with some customers more than others, though.

“Looks like today fucked you hard and rough,” Karkat says, passing Dave’s table in the most casual way possible.

The man, in return, looks up from what he’s doing. (It appears to be a sketch of the stables, done in his usual blood red ink.) His head tilts to the side, and his expression is quizzical. In the margins of the page, he writes, “I guess you could say that.”

Karkat nods. He passes the table and returns to the bar. There, he quietly prepares some warm apple cider. Though he knows it will cost the inn a few slicks, he adds some honey. Then, with the drink in hand, he returns to Dave’s booth. When he sets it down, he’s met with a look even more confused than the last.

“I didn’t pay for that,” Dave writes, frantically, “I can’t fucking afford that!” He taps several times at the page, leaving ink blots beside his words, to emphasize his point. At the same time, he pushes the drink away.

“I know you didn’t jackass. I’m not some sort of vapid, shit-eating idiot. I’m giving it to you,” Karkat explains.

Still, Dave refuses. He pushes the drunk further, until it’s almost on the edge of the table, as he scribbles in his notebook. When he’s done, he shoves the page forward. _“Why would you do that? You’ve got about as much to gain from this as a dog eating its own shit, which is to say not fucking much. Take it back, I’m not paying for this later.”_

Karkat sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose and chews on his lip. After a few seconds, he shoves the drink back across the table. “It’s on the house, dammit! Just take the drink and dump it into your gaping maw, alright? You look like you’ve had a day from hell, and I’m just trying to earn my way into the afterlife, which I fucking hope is better than this shitty life.” As he concludes, he meets the man’s gaze.

The two stare at one another for some time. Both remain silent, with their eyes wide and their mouths hanging slightly open.

Dave is the first to break the trance. “Thanks, then,” he writes, now focused on a nonspecific spot on the table.

“Yeah…” Karkat frowns. For once, he’s unable to formulate any sort of response. His heart is racing, and a strange warmth is rising within him. He feels something akin to the pleasure one feels when, after returning home from a long day outside, in the cold, they sit before the fire. “You’re…” He pauses. He looks away. “You’re welcome,” he finally manages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And [**here is the art**](https://tt40art.tumblr.com/post/169287476724/and-heres-a-medieval-sorceress-rose-lalonde) on Tumblr. Don't expect this to be an "updates daily" deal. I have no update schedule, and just post whenever I have an idea and I can get it out.


	3. Evoking Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[Evoking Memories](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QqxSjRrcfV4)** by RADWIMPS, _Your Name_ (2017)

Speaking to Dave is never a productive effort. For all the energy she’s invested, she’s gotten about as many returns as she’d expect from sowing seeds on the ocean shore. Her pleas have been swept away and disregarded, often met with sharp, aggravated commentary. Still, she feels obligated to protect him. He’s not her favorite person, but he’s the last family she has left. For some reason, she’s always felt closer to him than anyone else, even her own mother. It’s by no means an incestuous or gratuitous relationship; rather, it’s based upon the simple fact that they share magical powers.

So, if there’s anyone who can convince Dave to forgo his life of crime, it’s Rose. And she’s tried to do so for years. Today is just one of her many visitations.

She arrives clad in a black robe, with the hood pulled forward to cover her face. She isn’t supposed to be here. Joseph, also known as Bro, is a ruthless leader. Though Rose isn’t certain of many aspects of the relationship, she knows that the man despises his son. When Dave isn’t around, Bro will spew the foulest things about him. He derides him at every available opportunity, and Rose is fully aware that, to him, Dave is little more than another pawn in a game of wealth. Of course…

“David, I know you’re in there,” Rose calls out, rapping her knuckles against the hard oak door once more.

 _“Fuck off, Lalonde. Now isn’t the time.”_ The voice is clear and crisp, yet it has no physical presence.

As Dave’s half-sister, however, Rose knows his weaknesses. She reaches into her satchel, draws forth a parchment-wrapped item, and gently crinkles its covering. “I have a meat pie, fresh from Wayward Bakery…”

Nothing more needs to be said. The door swings open, and the open window outlines the powerful frame of a vulnerable man. As Rose expects, his skin is pale, not dissimilar to the snow, visible outside. Scars cover his arms, all earned from failed heists or unsatisfactory performances.

He reaches out, grabs the bag with one hand, and gestures for his sibling to come into his room with the other. He remains silent, as always.

“It seems to me that Joseph wasn’t satisfied with your most recent job,” says Rose, keeping her voice even, despite her burgeoning frustrations. Already, she can tell how this will go; the way his jaw is set, and how he eats his provided meal at a respectable distance are telltale signs of the outcome. Yet, she forges on. “Once again, he disparaged your character. To be brutally honest, and to quote him, you’re ‘an embarrassing, useless annoyance.’”

Dave shrugs. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. With a hunk of food still clutched in his left hand, and with his index fingers extended, he brings it down, so that the side rests against the top edge of his right. At the same time, he provides further clarification, _“He’s right.”_

“He’s _not_ right, David,” Rose snaps. “You’re simply set upon this idea, and you’ve been manipulated into believing it.”

A head shake. A low growl. _“He has no reason to do that. I’m his son.”_

“And when, exactly, can you recall him coming to visit you here, in this dump!?”

_“This place is fan-fucking-tastic. I don’t see anything wrong with it, and he’s busy. He’s got better shit to do than visit me.”_

Rose groans. She folds her arms across her chest and straightens her back and, though this offers her a bit more height, she remains the smaller of the two. Still, she projects her inner presence—a being comprised of a dogged devotion to the welfare of those she cares for and a will of steel—outward, with all the power she can encompass. “I’m perfectly aware that you have no feelings of true rapport for me, and that you are ignoring everything I’m saying, but you’re not meant to be in this world.”

 _“THEN WHERE THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO BE!?”_ Dave shoots back with a surprising amount of vitriol. He leaps to his feet. He adjusts his glasses and begins to march to the door. Throughout this, his expression remains as rigid as ever. His lips form a straight line, and his eyes reveal little. _“Thanks for lunch.”_ The voice, which can only be heard by Rose, is flat.

She’s failed.

Once again, she’s made no progress. She might have even undone any advances she’d made, but she takes pride in the fact that she tried. She also prides herself in her composure. Unlike her half-brother, she knows when to stop; she won’t push any further. Instead, once Dave is out of sight, she draws her hood up once more. Then, like a specter, she departs. No one notices her exit, just as no one noticed her entrance.

* * *

Dave bounds down the stairs with the utmost rapacity. He doesn’t go one stair at a time. No, he traverses down three or four stairs per long stride. He doesn’t stop when he stumbles, and he certainly doesn’t stop when he slips, tumbling down the last few stairs. Though the event draws a few reluctant glances, the hint of a bruise, which is forming on his left forearm, is the greatest injury. His pride remains intact, as does his willpower to remove himself from the situation. He approaches the bar, though there’s a brief moment of hesitation.

Normally, Karkat is the bartender. Today, however, it’s someone different. Dave can’t exactly say it’s unfair; the man runs the bar ever other day of his life, and he deserves some time off. Nonetheless, taking it _now_ is inconvenient.

Ultimately, he decides he doesn’t care. He sits down, whistles, and gestures towards the barrels when he has the bartender’s attention. Shortly afterwards, he is given a large glass of their cheapest whiskey. He drinks eagerly and, when he’s done, he orders another.

* * *

Having taken the morning and afternoon shifts off for the day, Karkat returns to his post at exactly 6:00 PM. He relieves the younger bartender, a kind but naive boy, and immediately sets about checking on the patrons. He knows who is in his bar at all times, just as he knows who is renting a room in his inn. These are skills that he learned quickly, and which he now parades proudly. He puts on his usual mask—that of a polite and happy-go-lucky owner, just like his father—and maintains the peace. During the initial round, he talks down a budding fist fight, and sends another scuffle outside.

He is tired, annoyed, and stressed, as always. Nevertheless, he continues. He serves drinks, persuades a passing traveler that the Boar’s Head is a perfectly reputable place to stay, and bites his tongue constantly. Yet, as the night wears on, he is finally met by something that breaks his composure. It’s a soft, melancholy melody. The chords are played with expert precision, yet they remain flexible. It’s not a song he’s heard before, and there are no lyrics. Clearly, the bard for tonight is…

He freezes.

Whoever was supposed to entertain, it seems, hadn’t shown. Instead, the lute has been taken up by another, unexpected man. In the flickering candlelight, his golden blond hair seems aglow, like an open flame. His eyes are half-closed, his tinted glasses set aside, and the top of his tunic is loosely tied. The dancing reds and oranges highlight a scar—a deep, puckered, painful-looking thing—which runs across his throat. His cheeks are bright red, and the edges of his lips are turned upward, forming a vague semblance of a smile.

“Dave?” Karkat utters, the name escaping him like an involuntary gasp.

He looks up, though his gaze seems to overshoot its target. Nevertheless, the smile widens. The tune shifts, and the notes become lighter. The weight they held melts away, and a warm, carefree song begins.

Karkat—the real Karkat, and not the professional persona he’s procured over the past five years—wants desperately to listen to the music. Every fiber of his being is drawn towards the enigmatic man, as if his very existence depends upon unraveling the mystery of his identity. Yet, he knows he has to stop it. The policy is clear, and it’s been in place since before Karkat was born. Revelry is permitted, but pure drunkenness—the state at which a person loses themselves, as Dave has—is not allowed.

“Dave,” Karkat repeats, “Strider, you’ve got to stop.”

The blond responds with a frown. He slowly sets aside the instrument. His hands move, creating fumbling gestures.

Despite his best efforts, Karkat can’t understand any of it. He approaches, throws his vest over Dave’s shoulders, and sighs. His heart claws against his chest, begging him to let the man continue, and he stifles it. “You’re drunk, Dave.”

He shakes his head.

“Fuck, it’s as obvious as the goddamned bar. You’re drunk,” he says, allowing the man to lean against him. Now, he notices that Dave smells of grist leaf smoke and burning wood. “Come on, let’s get you back to your room.”

* * *

By now, Rose realizes that the only way to get Dave to leave the Crows is to force him out. She has never been particularly fond of the organization, and she certainly doesn’t support their activities. While she can look aside for some petty theft, which is done to survive, she cannot condone what the Crows do. So, she decides to take things into her own hands.

Now, she stands before the gates to Skaia’s castle. Though the entire city is walled off from the outside world, the castle is, itself, its own fortress. She has already requested an audience with a woman she’s heard of—an investigator, known as Kanaya Maryam, whose detective work is renowned throughout the kingdom. This woman has already captured and prosecuted members of the Crows, and she’s familiar with how they operate. Thus, Rose is certain that she’ll be a valuable asset…


End file.
